Spilled Milk
by elphabaanne
Summary: "Maeve rolled her eyes, beginning the last leg of the walk home. She moved briskly, hellbent on making the interaction as short as humanly possible. Though she'd never officially met Jean, between taking the majority of her clinic's clients and being related to Otis, she was far from her favorite person." Maeve runs into Jean on the way home from picking up milk. Post 2x08.


Crouching in front of Isaac's mini-fridge, scanning her eyes over its pathetic contents, Maeve had never been so relieved to see such bare shelves.

She knew she wouldn't actually end up eating the omelet. Sure, she'd pick at it a bit, move it around on her plate to give her hands something to do, but she wouldn't actually eat it. She couldn't. Not at a time like this. Not after what she'd done.

And yet, she'd leaped at the opportunity to go get the milk. Because milk was easy. Milk was simple. It gave her a purpose. An objective. A distraction. It was something—right now it seemed like the only thing—she could control.

Until it wasn't.

Because, like most things in Maeve's life, it came crashing down.

To be fair, the cashier had cautioned her that her haul (consisting of the milk, the requested crisps, a pint of ice cream, a box of crackers, a sleeve of biscuits, and a few apples) might be too heavy for one paper bag to handle, but she wasn't about to fork over an additional ten pence for another one, so she took her chances.

Maeve should have known better than to be a gambling woman. Luck never seemed to be on her side.

Just as the clerk predicted, the bag gave out half a mile from home, a sudden gaping hole sending the milk splattering to the pavement, the apples rolling down the hill.

"Damn it!" she muttered under her breath, tossing the now useless bag to the side and leaning against a tree to examine her boot. It was soaked, of course, the milk already seeping into her sock. Though the rational part of her brain—the reasonable part that helped her and the Quiz Heads win nations—knew it was nothing more than a minor inconvenience, the impulsive part—the part that flared up every time she felt vulnerable, the part she hated to admit she inherited from her mom—wondered why the universe couldn't give her this one thing, let her avoid this one obstacle.

She wanted to scream at the sky, flip off the world.

But she was just so...tired.

She settled on leaning her head against the bark. Closing her eyes and taking in a shaky breath. Trying to regain her composure. To stuff that anger, that frustration, back in. She couldn't let it win. She couldn't let nature overpower the nurturing she'd tried to do for herself lately. The nurture that had developed with Aimee, the Quiz Head geeks, even Otis once upon a time.

She bit her tongue and squeezed her eyes shut, willing the tears to burn but not fall. Never fall. And to do that took concentration—every ounce that she could muster.

Which is why she practically jumped when a vaguely familiar female voice jolted her from her focused haze.

"Don't cry over spilled milk," it said.

Maeve snapped her eyes open, at first just seeing a hand holding out one of her fallen, now slightly bruised apples. Her glance traveled up the length of the arm before landing on the face, placing it in a split second: Jean Milburn. Otis' mom.

"I'm not," Maeve scowled instinctively, crossing her arms over her chest.

Jean's smile quickly faded, clearly not expecting the harsh reaction. "It's just an expression, dear," she explained.

Maeve shook her head slightly, clearing her throat to rid it of anything that could even remotely be suspected as emotion. "I know."

She grabbed the apple from Jean's hand. "Thanks," she said curtly, avoiding eye contact.

Maeve knelt to the ground, attempting to gather up all the supplies that weren't currently trickling down the storm drain so she could bolt.

"I actually just bought some milk myself if you want it," Jean offered. "We still have about half a carton at home. It's almond milk if that makes a difference."

"Of course you drink almond milk," Maeve mumbled under her breath. If you looked up "hippie-dippie chunky-granola" in the dictionary, she didn't doubt you'd find Jean's picture.

"Come again?" Jean asked, picking up the biscuits.

"Nothing," Maeve sighed, standing up and maneuvering herself to take the box from Jean, struggling to precariously balance it in the crook of her elbow. "And no thank you. I don't drink nuts."

"Will you be able to manage all that?" Jean asked, eying the rapidly accumulating pile.

"I'm fine," Maeve assured through gritted teeth, hoping Jean would get the hint and leave her alone.

No such luck.

"Do you want help carrying it home? I don't mind."

"Why would I show you where I live?" Maeve snapped. She could feel the biscuits start to slip from her grasp, and she prayed they would at least hang on until Jean was out of sight to save her from further humiliation. "You could be an ax murderer."

Jean breathed out a laugh, pushing the grocery tote higher onto her shoulder. "These reusable bags are quite spacious, though I don't think they're big enough to hoard an ax."

Maeve gritted her teeth. The biscuits were clinging on for dear life now. She knew Jean could tell, too. She was really going to make her say it, wasn't she? She was really going to make her admit defeat. "Fine," Maeve caved.

Jean immediately reached out to rescue the biscuits, offloading the crisps and a few apples as well.

Maeve rolled her eyes, beginning the last leg of the walk home. She moved briskly, hellbent on making the interaction as short as humanly possible. Though she'd never officially met Jean, between taking the majority of her clinic's clients and being related to Otis, she was far from her favorite person.

More than that, Jean obviously wasn't stupid, and that made Maeve nervous. She was a therapist, for god's sake—someone literally trained to interpret people's emotions. That was the last thing Maeve needed right now. Which is why she'd resort to her tried-and-true persona: cold, guarded, and completely unreadable.

"Almond milk's awful for the environment, you know," Maeve said, grasping at any ammunition she had to try and regain the upper hand.

"Really? Almond milk?" Jean asked, genuinely surprised.

"Yeah," Maeve said as if this was something everyone already knew. "Takes a load of water to produce, and it kills tons of bees."

"Oh. I didn't know," Jean blinked. "Maybe I'll switch to oat next time."

Maeve quirked an unimpressed eyebrow, irritated the jab didn't seem to bother Jean at all.

"I'm Jean, by the way," the older woman said.

"I know who you are," Maeve replied, causing Jean to flash her a raised brow of her own. "I go to Moordale," she explained.

"Ah," Jean nodded. "Do you know my son Otis?"

Maeve clenched her jaw. For some reason, hearing her say his name triggered something inside her. She hated him. She hated him so much for everything he said, everything he did.

But then again...wasn't he sort of right about her being selfish? Hadn't her actions that day sort of proven that? And could she ever really truly hate him? Feel anything but that stupid heart-skipping, stomach-flipping feeling some people called love every time someone said his name?

She knew she had to be careful about how she answered. After all, she had no idea how much Otis might have shared with Jean about her, about them. It was dumb, and she knew she wasn't nearly important enough to warrant it, but a little piece of her had always secretly hoped he couldn't shut up about her. Told people he was in love and wasn't too ashamed to say her name. She knew she had to play her cards right, but it was hard when her head was so cloudy, so conflicted.

"Yeah, I know Otis," she settled on.

"Do you have classes together?"

"Yeah," Maeve replied. "We were actually partners. For a business project."

Jean narrowed her eyes. "Is that code for 'sex clinic?'"

Maeve stopped dead in her tracks for a beat, eyes widening.

Shit. How the hell did that leak?

Maeve coughed, picking up the pace even more. Jean seemed to be getting closer and closer to ceasing all the power in this dynamic, and Maeve refused to hand over any more ammo. She decided to let her silence talk for her. Everyone knows only guilty people plead the fifth.

"Are you two friends?" Jean inquired, annoyingly keeping up Maeve's rapid strides with ease.

Maeve could have laughed at the impossible complexities of that question. Had there ever been a more loaded four words?

"That's...complicated. I'm not sure he likes me very much right now," Maeve said, choosing to leave it at that. Saying any more would open doors, leave words open to dissection. She preferred to have things firmly shut and sealed.

"I understand," Jean said. She couldn't possibly, of course, but it was nice to hear her say it. To not assume Maeve was automatically the bad guy who had corrupted her sweet, innocent boy, twisting him into some rogue sex advice pimp. She knew that's what every adult thought when they saw her: the girl with the nose ring and loud hair is nothing but trouble. I've got to keep her from radicalizing my precious baby.

"He can be...complicated," Jean added.

"I don't really blame him," Maeve said without thinking. Jean looked at her, waiting for elaboration. Maeve bit her lip, trying to keep it casual, blunt. "For not liking me? I'm kind of an arsehole."

Jean shrugged. "Everyone can be kind of an arsehole. Sometimes I believe that's the natural human state."

Maeve breathed out a humorless laugh. She didn't know the half of it. "Not like me."

"Why is that?"

None of your business. Piss off. I'd rather gouge my eyes with a rusty steak knife than talk to you about this. She considered saying all of it.

But then she glanced over at Jean, just for a moment, and she looked so...sincere. So genuinely interested in what Maeve might say. And not in the way some of the neighbors did when she was younger, so eager to jump in and be the hero so they could pat themselves on the back, not caring about the aftermath once they'd done the part that came with glory. And not in the way that most guys did, fetishizing her damaged pieces, making empty promises that they could make her feel better once she climbed under the covers with them.

She reminded herself again that Jean was trained for this. It was her job to wear a mask, to look engaged. But Maeve had known a lot of people, and she was pretty good at detecting when someone wasn't being honest. For some reason, she believed Jean. And what did she have to lose at this point?

"I called social services on my mom today," Maeve said, attempting to keep her voice even and nonchalant. "For endangering the welfare of a child."

Jean stopped, her forehead crinkling in concern. She squinted, trying to see better in the dark. "Did she hurt you?" Maeve felt Jean's eyes scanning her, looking for any visible marks, no doubt. Typical.

"Not me," Maeve scoffed. She wasn't a child—not by a long shot. Sometimes she forgot how coddled the rest of the world could be. "I'm talking about my little sister. Half-sister. She's three. And she never touched her. She just...uses sometimes."

Jean nodded, mouth in a line. Maeve could tell she was holding back, restraining herself from prying, from reaching out and touching her, checking on her, comforting her. She seemed like that type of person. The small, childish part buried deep within Maeve wished she would, but the part that held her dignity—and the part that knew she didn't deserve it—was glad she didn't.

"That couldn't have been easy," Jean finally replied. "Sounds like you did a very brave thing."

"It was cowardly," Maeve shot back.

Jean blinked, barely fazed. "How so?"

"Because I didn't have to get them involved. We could have figured it out—I could have figured it out."

"I don't doubt you could have. You're clearly a very bright girl. But taking care of her is not your responsibility," Jean replied evenly.

Maeve jerked her head slightly, taken aback. "Of course it's my responsibility. She's my mom."

"Precisely," Jean said. "Which means it's her job to take care of you. Not the other way around."

Maeve bit the inside of her cheek. "She tried to. I wouldn't let her."

"What do you mean?" Jean asked.

Maeve took a deep breath, flashing back to how she'd acted during her mother's first few days back in town. The way she'd shot down every effort she made to bond. The way she'd refused any of her affection. The way she didn't trust her. Maybe it could have all been different. Maybe she could have changed things.

"I was too hard on her," Maeve said quietly. "She just needed some support, and I didn't give it to her. Instead I…" Maeve swallowed, trying to keep the rapidly growing lump in her throat away. "I pushed her away, and it pushed her into using again. And then I got the cops called, and she's never going to forgive me, and honestly?" she rambled, capping it off with another bitter laugh, a tear being swiped with the heel of her hand. "I don't blame her. I spent...so much time wishing she would try not to be such a shitty mother when I should have been trying not to be such a shitty daughter."

Finally saying it was exhausting and terrifying and liberating all at once. It was an overload of emotions—one that made her head and eyes swimmy despite her best efforts to remain grounded.

She remembered reading about these techniques when she was studying for the psychology portion of the quiz bowl: focusing on specific things to help you regain your composure. It seemed stupid, but it was worth a shot. At this point, anything was.

She checked in with her senses. She could taste a mixture of salt and copper—small drops of sweat gathering on her tongue. She could hear groceries falling to the ground, the wind gently blowing in the trees above her, the leaves chiming together in a soothing symphony. She could see a tuft of bleach blonde hair in her peripheral, smell the mix of hairspray and perfume. And she could feel arms. Arms wrapped around her. A gentle squeeze. A hand through her hair.

And she let them stay there. For the first time in maybe ever, she let herself be held. And she let herself feel safe, just for a moment. She needed a moment.

"I need you to listen to me," Jean said after Maeve began to feel herself calm down. "I need you to tell me that you're really listening," she commanded gently.

Maeve nodded against her shoulder.

"You are not to blame for your mother's actions. You did nothing wrong, and it's not your fault."

"But I-"

Jean pulled back slightly, moving to cup Maeve's face. "But nothing," she said, equal parts compassion and conviction. "It's not your fault, do you understand me? Not even a little bit."

Maeve wanted to believe her. She almost did believe her, the way she was talking. But she knew she would never get out of this until she convinced Jean she agreed in earnest.

Maeve nodded, already swatting off any last trace of tears on her cheeks. She felt embarrassed and exposed but lighter somehow, too. She wasn't exactly happy she broke down in front of Otis' mom, but she shockingly didn't completely regret it either.

"Okay," Maeve replied, sniffling the last of the weakness away. "I understand."

Maeve knew her poker face wasn't as good as it usually was right now. And she knew Jean wasn't an idiot—that Maeve was stretching the truth. But thankfully, she dropped it, and they picked up the groceries that had been dropped for a second time, wordlessly continuing the rest of the walk to Maeve's house.

"So who's taking care of you now?" Jean asked after a few minutes.

"I can take care of myself," Maeve replied. A non-answer that said nothing and everything all at once. Out of the corner of her eye, Maeve saw Jean flinch ever so slightly, her jaw tensing. It's what Otis did when he was weighing his words, too.

"No one else is in the house?" Jean asked, attempting to keep the disapproval from creeping into her tone.

"Trailer," Maeve corrected. "And no. But I see the neighbors a lot," she said quickly. Jean wasn't stupid, but Maeve wasn't, either. She knew there were laws and processes—a certain rulebook you had to follow as an adult, let alone one with "Dr." in front of your name.

Jean opened her mouth to speak, but before she could say anything, Maeve cut her off. "There's one of them now," Maeve said, stepping into her neighborhood. "Hi, Cynthia!" she called out.

"Hey, Maeve!" Cynthia waved back. Maeve's shoulders relaxed slightly. She couldn't have planned it any better if she'd tried.

"See?" Maeve shrugged. "Close-knit community." She fished her key from her pocket, swinging open the trailer door and setting the items down on the counter.

Jean nodded, mouth in a tight smile. She was clearly far from comfortable with the arrangement, but Maeve knew she wasn't going to choose this battle. Not today.

"Well, if you ever want some company, you're more than welcome over at the Milburn house," Jean offered, unloading Maeve's groceries—and the carton of almond milk—onto the counter.

Maeve smiled, a tinge of sadness to it. "Not sure how Otis would feel about that."

"You let me worry about Otis," Jean said, sliding her grocery bag onto her shoulder again and walking the few steps to the door. "I mean it," she said. "Dinner, tea, anything. And don't worry—I'll provide all the groceries. No need to lug them up the hill," Jean smiled, giving her a wink.

The invitation alone—the promise that there would be someone to look after her for a change, should she ever want it—was enough to make Maeve's heart twist in a way that was foreign yet not altogether unpleasant, though she doubted she'd ever actually take Jean up on it.

Then again, Maeve thought, she'd been surprising herself a lot lately.


End file.
